


Not In Brooklyn

by niklitera



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Bucky Barnes Breaks Down (Slightly), Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Is Trying, Disabled Character, Gen, M/M, therapy fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-22
Updated: 2015-03-22
Packaged: 2018-03-19 03:23:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3594492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/niklitera/pseuds/niklitera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James Barnes wants to remember, he just doesn't want to go to therapy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not In Brooklyn

**Author's Note:**

> "arrogant boy, love yourself so no has to."

"There was once a boy in the streets with rubble below his thighs and wounds in his hands. He was a mess of blonde hair and blue eyes and as soon as they pushed him to the ground he was back on his feet with his fists raised to fight back. And when he couldn't move anymore and his eyes could be lifted no more, you came. And as surprising as it could be, it was to stay.

"There was once a boy in your house, where water and food wasn't nearly enough. But when he tried to give it all back, you'd always tell him that he deserved so much more. He'd feel guilty and you'd tend to his wounds. And, in return, the hope and kindness he gave you made up for everything else that wasn't there.

"There was once a boy who drew on paper as if willing those figures to come alive. You'd watch him once or twice, only when he wouldn't notice, and if he did, well, what would he have thought of it? He drew in pencil, charcoal, and if he was lucky, in red or blue, but you loved it best when he'd draw you and you could be still for hours with his entire attention on your being. And he would have the excuse to do that."

"You can't know that."

"Yes, I can and I do."

"You're full of shit."

"Be quiet and let me finish," his smile didn't make the other man feel at ease, but he complied. "There was once a boy who wanted to fight. He was weak, he was sick, but he wanted to stand and rise. He'd try once, twice, five and six times, and it wasn't until he'd almost given up that they saw him at last. You were unaware, gone and on the fields of mines, but he'd change for his country, you and probably a helpless child."

"He does that a lot."

"James, please," his tone was chiding, but the man pursed his lips and nodded at him to continue. "There was once a boy who paraded in a circus, one who wanted to do more but couldn't get inside the circle. He'd learn of you, out and about, were nothing but a prisioner and probably not alive. So he set out with nothing but two friends and raw determination, and he'd have done it a thousand times, I'm sure of it."

"You're not rhyming anymore."

"I assure you that it comes naturally," he huffed. "It was not my intention."

"You're being awfully poetic," James smirked, leaning further and shifting on the pillow he'd placed on the floor. "Everything you're saying comes out philosophical. You remind me of Thor, slightly. Or a British version of Fury."

"And you're as rude as the Director," the man rubbed the bridge of his nose. "May I continue?"

"Please."

"He saved you," there wasn't anything poetic about the statement. "We all know he did. He never tells anyone but I can see it."

"You know I can't give you credit for that."

"You know I will leave the room," he challenged.

"Fine, go on."

"He saved you, and you were alive, and he was back on his feet with the title of Captain on his back and the greatest team he could ever ask for. You all did great things, James, you should know how many lives you saved."

"I've been told," his tone was dry, and he wasn't amused or grateful.

"You saved someone very dearest to me."

"And where is he now?"

"You already know."

"Then don't mention him, because he sets a terrible example."

"You're being incredibly pessimistic in today's session, James, has something bothered you?"

"You already know."

"Well, I want you to tell me."

"My butt hurts."

"You did say you did not want a chair."

"I hate those chairs. They're too comfortable."

"I do not know what you want."

"I want to remember."

"I can't do what you ask of me, James, I'm sorry, we already talked about this," he sighed, looking sadly at the adamantium arm. "There's still a lot of things we could do while Mr. Stark works on that new arm of yours, though."

"But you can read my mind," James was frustrated, and he could understand that. He'd be frustrated, too. "So you can help me!"

"I am a telepath, yes," Charles Xavier blinked at him. "But that arm stops me from manipulating anything. You already know this."

"There has to be something!"

"I'm sorry."

"That's all I've been hearing."

"I know."

"Professor," James winced and rubbed his eyes. "What...? I mean, what happened to the boys from Brooklyn? It changed so fast, they were just kids, why would they go to war? Why would he go to war?"

"Because he wanted to protect you," was all Charles said.

"Me!" James laughed, "He's ignored me ever since SHIELD caught me! He visits me once a week and when he does, he barely says anything at all! He was all aboard on the plan of taking me here, of all places, with children all over, just so I'd get out of his hair!"

"That's a lie," Charles said calmly. "He wants you to get better."

"Then why ignore me?!"

"He believes he could trigger too many memories at once," the professor wheeled himself next to the old soldier, and upon closer inspection he found the shadows under his eyes a deeper shade. "And he put you here because he told me you used to love taking care of kids."

"I did?"

"Do you like it here, James?"

"I guess I do."

"You are doing a wonderful job in the kitchens and the children love the self-defense lessons," his hands came apart from each other, as if that answered all of the questions he'd ever had, all of the doubts he'd tossed around his mind in the months he'd been at the school. "You smile, James, more often than I thought you could in the short time you've been here."

"I guess I do," he repeated, now uncomfortable. He didn't know the kids liked it when he was around.

"Steve calls," Charles told him softly. "Every day, at seven, to see how you've been doing. Did you know?"

James shook his head.

"He misses you, and even I can feel it, I can hear it. Did you know?"

"What mind game around you playing now?" the prosthetic was hypersensitive to every touch, and the rough scratch of the carpet helped him focus. "Because if you want me to admit it - yes, I do miss him, too, and I care about him and all I can fucking remember is that stupid apartment in Brooklyn and all his fuckin' drawings, okay? That's all, that's - what's that?"

"You're crying, James," Charles told him softly, nodding when James immediately took the handkerchief and pressed it to his damp eyes. "Well, if you miss him, why don't you tell him?"

"I didn't know he missed me, too," he shrugged, then choked out a sob and hicupped in surprise. "Fuck, why the hell am I crying?"

"Admitting feelings is a very overwhelming step, so do not be ashamed, my friend," the man in the wheelchair leaned back against the backrest, smiling slightly. 

"Step towards what?"

"Recovery," he cocked his head. "And forgiveness."

"Forgiveness?"

"Forgiveness."

"To whom?"

"To yourself."

"I don't think I can do that," the supersoldier laughed, but soon he was cursing again and wiping his eyes. 

"Yes, you can," the professor placed a hand on his head, and James looked up and tried to return his smile. "Because you are Bucky Barnes."


End file.
